Love Letter to Nobody
by Miss Nova
Summary: Balfour has just been recruited into the Airmen of Volstov to fill his dead brother's place. In the box of his dead brother's possessions, finds a letter addressed only to a 'dearly beloved'. He goes and tries to find out who she is. M/f, hints of m/m.
1. Chapter 1

The distinct sound of wheels on cobblestone would have once put the current passenger of the carriage to sleep, but not today. Gloved hands held a piece of paper, slender fingers tracing the finely written lines, the script as perfect as the author himself in the boys eyes.

Who was she? bowed lips murmured, blue eyes sad and curious, nearly hidden by a fringe of dark hair. Balfour had been recruited not a month after his brothers death, the Chief Sergeant himself coming to tell him the news. If it hadnt been for the letter he had found in his brothers things a week before Adamo came, he probably wouldnt have accepted the job so easily, but this letterthis letter  
_  
__My eternal beloved_, it began, immediately piquing the boys curiosity. His brother, as far as Balfour had known, hadnt had a beloved anywhere, having been too cold and distant to even want a woman.

_My eternal beloved,__  
__It has been so long since I have last seen your beauty in aught but a dream. My heart does yearn for your comfort, but I have no way to seek it. So close, yet so far apart, we are trapped on opposite sides of a wall of impenetrable dragon metal, yet in the same place. Funny, the limits our dear city places upon us because of our social class; I an airman, you a lady of high standing. My father would approve, naturally, but as long as I work for the Dragon Corps, you will be out of my reach, a star beyond my grasp._  
_Until our next fortuitous meeting, _  
_Yours always,_  
_Amery._

The words echoed in the boys soul as he read them once again, his mind working overtime. Who had been his dear brothers eternal beloved? Who was this lucky girl who had stolen Amerys carefully guarded heart? He was determined to find out, and that was the only reason he had even agreed to be an airman, not his fathers insistence or wanting to fill his brothers shoes, which were the common assumptions already.

As far as Balfour had discovered, this was a love letter to nobody, the woman long gone or a figment of his brothers imagination. Most likely the former, considering Amery wasnt prone to the latter. At least being in Thremedon meant that he could investigate further without his father wondering about it. There had to be a reason that he didnt know about this woman.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks into his stay at the Airman, Balfour still hadnt found time to go investigate this eternal beloved of his brothers; training had gotten in his way, and if he wasnt training, he was sleeping or he didnt have clothes, _or_ he had a blue streak across his face. It was all really rather annoying, but childish, so he tried to ignore it. He would only be giving them what they wanted if he fought against them or went home crying to his mother.

Finally, the weekend came, and with it, the worst prank of them all. As if the Airmen had some insight into his mental agendabecause he certainly didnt write it downthey cornered him in the shower that morning, tied him to the faucet, left the cold water running, and just _left_. He frowned, thinking of all the words that Amery had taught him never to say, and just waited, wishing distantly that they hadnt taken his gloves, too. They would get bored eventually. It was the Chief Sergeant who finally let him down, gaining the man more respect in Balfours eyes. At least _he_ was sensible.

Nearly an hour later, after shaking the spiders out of his clothesimmature, he reminded himself. Best not to scream like a girl (no matter whether he wanted to or not)he left, letter in hand, a list of his brothers female correspondents in the other, and decided to pay the first woman a visit.

The woman who answered the door was very beautiful, but rather twitchy; however, when Balfour mentioned his brother, her face became dreamy and wistful.

Its a pity he died, she said insensitively, causing a pain to shoot through Balfours chest. He was really quite kind and _very_ handsome. I didnt really know him, though. I would have loved to.

They talked for a while, the woman telling stories of his brother, the way she had always seen him interacting with her friends, and then, about a half hour later, Balfour left, crossing her name off the list as well as two whom she had pronounced dead. He couldnt go see them, after all, but he would definitely ask around. This woman had said that the other two hadnt had a relationship with him, but he would not take her word for it. He had to know who the letter was for that way he could deliver it properly, if a bit late.

As for the rest, they could wait until after lunch.


	3. Chapter 3

The cafe was quiet, peaceful, just the break Balfour needed after the long morning he had had. The waitress was pleasant and pretty, like a painting on the wall to lighten a dark room He smiled and was friendly, but didn't flirt the way the rest of the Airmen would have, which was why he was taken by surprise when she sat down across from him, but her purpose was made clear immediately.

"You're Amery's little brother, aren't you!" she gushed, taking his hands. "Oh, I'd know those beautiful eyes anywhere! Do you remember me?"

"No, miss, I do not," Balfour said softly, ever polite.

"It's Amaria! Oh, but I suppose you wouldn't remember. You were small, it was a long time ago, and there were a lot of people. I don't blame you."

Balfour glanced at the list, but her name wasn't there. "How did you know him?" he asked, breaking out a pen and paper.

She laughed and teased him for a moment before sighing and beginning to speak in earnest.

"I met him through one of the other Airmen, Niall. I was...involved with him at the time and I had spent the evening at the Airman...

_She had gotten hungry, so she had gone to the kitchens, only to find a very solemn man cooking. The first thing she had noticed had been his back, clearly muscular, even clothed as it had been, but not overly muscular like some of the men. His slender hips and very nice ass drew her eyes next, and she hadn't realized she had been staring until he had turned and cleared his throat.___

_"May I help you?" he asked curly, his voice lofty and proper, absent of the affected street accent that she had noticed on many of the Airmen._  
_She had explained that she was there on Niall's invitation and that she had gotten hungry, and he turned and silently cracked another egg in the pan. It was then that she had realized he had been wearing gloves, and that he hadn't gotten any egg on them at all._

_After a few minutes, he had set the eggs on the table, having pushed one plate over to her without a word. She had eaten just as silently until someone else had joined them._

_"Trying to steal my girl, Amery?" Niall had asked jokingly, having stolen Amery's plate and making his way through the rest of the egg under the other man's intense, chocolate gaze. It had sent a thrill through Amaria's body, watching this man all but glare at Niall, polite even in that._  
_Niall had continued teasing him, trying to get a rise out of him, and had failed badly. Amery had only responded with a very calm "Niall, you have yet to introduce the young lady."_

_Niall had laughed and introduced her, and it was only then that Amery had smiled, just a notch wider than a polite smile, his brown eyes warming as they had landed on her._

_"Amaria," he had murmured. "What a beautiful name. Tell me, what possessed you to, ah, entertain this particular Airman?" And there it was, subtle as anything, his strike against Niall. She hadn't been able to think of anything other than desperation when they first met, but she didn't say that; she hadn't answered at all. _

_He had offered to take her out ot lunch later, "to make up for my comrade's crudeness," he had said. Naturally, she accepted, having felt a connection to him immediately..._

"But that was as far as it went," she told Balfour sadly. "When we saw each other, we would speak, and he was always so kind, but after we had that lunch, he did not propose anything else. Pity. He was such a nice man."

Balfour sighed, disappointed. Amaria seemed so kind, too, and intelligent. Amery must have at least liked her.

"If you're wondering how we met, you were at the Airman, visiting Amery. Niall had had me over. I remember Amery had stolen Luvander's uniform so you could wear it. Oh the fit he threw! You wanted to be just like your brother...it was cute. I suppose you are like him, now, aren't you?"

After a couple more stories from her, he thanked her for her time and left, scratching her newly-added name off the list. He sighed again as he walked into the Airman, back at square one...only...it was too quiet there...


	4. Chapter 4

The quiet, unfortunately, didnt last for long.

Where the hell have you been? came Adamos angry voice, quickly followed by the man himself, red in the face as he stalked toward the younger man.

Unsure what to say, Balfour stammered a bit, earning a very annoyed Spit it out!

Well, you see, sir, I was in the city he said quietly, trailing off a bit awkwardly as the Sergeant stalked closer. Balfour could see the lines in his irises, a light blue that just enhanced the grey.

You were in the city? he asked skeptically.

Yes sir.

Were you aware that Raphael had switched raid nights with you?

N-no sir

Get downstairs. Now. I need to run through a few things with you in case the siren goes off tonight.

Balfour nodded and went straight to Anastasias pen, almost positive that he was just imagining the worry in Adamos voice. He trusted Anastasia, but by the looks the others gave her, he guessed no one else did. He was also sure that Anastasia was still grieving for Amery, though the others laughed when he had asked Ghislainthe only man who was civil to him, not counting Adamo, so farabout it.

The girls might seem like theyre alive, but they dont _feel_ anything like we do. Theyre not human.

Ghislain hadnt laughed, but his words were as good as laughter. Ivory hadnt laughed either; he had only stared intensely at him.

Thinking back as he pulled on his flight gloves, he realized that all Ivory had ever done to him was stare intensely. Interesting.

Adamo was downstairs with him in no time, still annoyed, but not as angry. He had figured out that Raphael had switched shifts and not told Balfour in hopes that he would get in trouble. As he walked past Anastasia, he gave her an affectionate pat, which she returned with a nuzzle.

Balfour gaped for a moment before recovering, barely suppressing a smile. It was only once they had left the pen that he spoke. Sir, do you think its possible that Anastasia is grieving for Amery?

Adamo looked at him a moment.

Are you shitting me? Of _course_ she is.

Balfour couldnt help the smile that spread across his face, but he did manage to keep from hugging him. Thats what I thought, sir, he said simply and happily, glad to have found someone else who thought of the girls as more than just machines.

Adamo just gave him an odd look and shook his head, then started reviewing some of the points he had made earlier.

Less than an hour later, the siren rang, and Balfour was in the air, on his first raid ever. Adamo and Ace were with him, but nowhere near. He had flown far ahead to scout the area. Glancing back, he searched for the comforting shape of Proudmouth, and that was why the wind took him by surprise, ripping a mild curse from his lips. Anastasia screamed, and Balfour had to adjust her immediately, pulling her out of the wind to calm her, and then shot fire toward some of the shapes on the mountains. Once she calmed, she chastised him for not paying attention.

The raid went well enough, Thoushalt, Proudmouth, and Anastasia raining fire and Hell down upon the Ke-Han magicians. Balfour even got patted on the back by Ace, told he did a good job by Adamowho had missed the flub-up with the windhowever, he knew he had screwed up big time. Had he not looked for his Sergeant, he would have seen the magicians.

He went on two more raids that week, but didnt make that same mistake twice. That could have been helped by the fact that Adamo wasnt on either raid, but the truth was, he didnt want Anastasia any angrier with him than she already was. It wasnt until they got back from the third raid that Anastasia finally spoke to Balfour againshe hadnt spoken to him after the incident the first day.

It seems you _do_ learn from your mistakes, she said leaning down to nuzzle him as he silently cleaned her off. I forgive you, then.

Balfour was pleased to gain her forgiveness and went to bed happy that night. The happiness didnt last long; he found himself dragged into horrific nightmares full of falling and fire, Anastasias screams and a strange numbness in his hands.

The next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake by a large, warm, rough hand and opened his eyes to see familiar grey ones, laced with blue, concern shining all too clearly in them. He smiled, his hazy blue eyes closing again, falling asleep once again, feeling safe and protected. All he would remember of that night would be that hand and those eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Weeks passed, turning somehow subtly into months without Balfour even realizing it, only his hair marking the passage of time in any certain way. His dark hair was quite a bit longer than when he had first joined, falling into his eyes when his head was tilted down, hiding the sight of the cruel world of the Airman. He had adjusted to the teasing by then, to the pranks, no matter how many times he had had his room broken into or his boots pissed in. There was only one thing that hurt him, and he let no one know what it was because he was sure the one who was hurting him never meant to do any such thing.

Eventually, he realized he would have to get his hair cut. Luvander and Evariste might be able to get away with having their hair tied back, but it wouldn't look good on him. He remembered seeing his brother try it once; it had looked absolutely ridiculous, just as ridiculous as it did on him as he pulled it back in the mirror, testing it out. He sighed and shook his head, deciding that he did need to go into town again, anyway.

After putting in for proper time off, making damn sure no one had swapped him shifts that night without telling him, and getting the okay from Adamo, he set off, with only a lightly teasing remark from the older man about not coming back until that mop was shorter. He offered a small laugh, then went on his way. There it was again, that too-familiar pain in his hands and chest. As he passed Rook, he shied away, dodging to one side, hoping the cruel man didn't notice him leaving. Luckily, he didn't, or else he risked being tied up again or a fate much worse. Rook was one of the few that hadn't backed off by now. Most of the others had gotten bored with their games and were bouncing between tormenting Raphael and him, mostly for the same assumed crime: being a cindy, the worst thing to be in the testosterone-driven society of the airman. Gods forbid one of the men liked men more than they should.

He went down to a little shop near an old favorite teahouse of an old pen pal of his, happy to, as Adamo had said, get his mop cut to a shorter length, then going to the teahouse to get some of his favorite tea and a few treats. Someone's birthday was coming up, so, while he was in town, he would make sure to go shopping. He wanted to buy something nice, after all. While in a shop, looking for a nice pen set, he ran into an old familiar face, one that he remembered having seen with his brother numerous times. She recognized him as well. 

"I'd know those eyes anywhere," she told him. "But other than that, you've grown up to look just like your brother, did you know. Oh, he was so handsome."

Balfour smiled and looked at his listhe carried that paper everywhere, now. "What is your name?" he asked her.

"Marishka," she said with a bright smile right back at him. He looked at the list, and lo and behold, her name was on it.

"You knew him well?" he asked. 

"Why, of course," she said simply. "Now, why the questions. And this list! So many names!"

Balfour sighed. He had never once explained to the women he had interviewed why he had had so many questions, such a long list of names. "I found something in my brother's possessions when they were sent to us after... Well. I believe it belongs to one of his female acquaintances."

She laughed quietly, flushing a bit. "Well, if he were any of the other airmen, such an item would have been in quite questionable taste, yes?" she asked, clearly teasing the younger man, who averted his eyes, his ears going just a touch pink. "Ah, but Amery...He was a classy young man, never influenced by the terrible habits of his peers. He would not have kept such things, but, perhaps, it would be jewels or a trinket that he had been given or intended to give?"

Balfour shook his head. "It was a letter, miss," he corrected. "Would you say he was close to you? Closer than he was with most of the other women?"

"Oh, one can never tell," she murmured sadly. "He was quite fond of many women, of whom I am lucky to count myself. He often gave me trinkets and jewels, but we were never in correspondence." She knew that this letter wouldn't be for her, after all.

"Do you know any of his particular friends that might have been ladies of the court?"

"Oh, quite a few, honestly. Let's see. There was Ana, Kyrie, Rhani, and quite a few others that I had never had the pleasure of meeting. Perhaps you should ask around amongst those ladies? They would know what you seek, if anyone. Court gossip, especially that of a young man of that caliper travels quickly."

They chatted a while longer, friendly small talk, Marishka reminiscing a bit over how she had first met Balfour, having been lucky enough to run into him while they were in the country, her father owning a rather large country estate himself and having been invited to one of his family's parties. "You were very small then," she said. "I believe you spent most of your time tagging along behind your brother. You two were inseparable then. Even he, at the age of fifteen, didn't mind too much that his ten year old brother tagged along. Perhaps the age gap isn't so much."

The truth was Amery had always been rather kind to Balfour, even when he did accidentally ruin some of his possessions. Sometimes, it had even become a joke. Amery had always brought him books, even though the young man hadn't much cared for children. He and his little sister, Charity, who was three years younger than Balfour, were never close. She was too young. He had been five when Balfour was born, but eight and allergic to children when Charity was born. As he aged, the gap between him and his sister widened. He had never lost the closeness with Balfour, though. He had held him as a child, after all.

Then again, who in their right minds could resist Balfour's big, blue eyes when he was a child?

As he walked home, he felt a bit more accomplished, the three names circled on his list. He would have to track them down, but for now, all he really felt like was putting the package in the mail to send to the recipient. He had a huge smile on his face for the first time in a while as he walked into the Airman, only to find his room had been broken into again, all his books trashed, thrown all over the room. As he cleaned up the mess, he found himself thankful that no one had found his journal of poetry.

After a while of cleaning, he realized that one certain book was missing. It was his favorite book, just a story book, a silly fictional piece that his brother had given him for his twenty-second birthday, the year before Amery died. He searched everywhere for it, but he couldn't find it anywhere. He wanted to cry, but he didn't. Instead, he stood and decided to expand his search throughout the Airman. He didn't tell a soul what he was looking for, but he didn't find it. By the time he had checked every open room three times, and managed to convince a couple of the airmen to let him look in their roomsRaphael, Ghislain, and Magoughin to be exact. Ones who were tolerable to himhe was distraught, tearing apart a couch. That was how Adamo found him, and he cleared his throat, looking a bit disturbed.

"Now this isn't like you to be so destructive," he said simply, grey eyes hard, his face tolerating no nonsense. "So there better damn well be a good explanation."

Balfour turned to him, clearly upset, past the verge of tears and looking closer to a mental breakdown, twisting his gloves desperately. "My book," he whispered, eyes darting to the corners of the common room. He would only tell Adamo. He knew he wouldn't laugh. "Amery got it for me a couple years ago, for my birthday. SomeI mean, I think I misplaced it." He had to quickly correct himself lest he accuse someone of doing something that he had done himself.

"Someone stole it?" Adamo asked, catching the slip.

Unable to lie to the man, Balfour nodded. "I think so, sir. My-my room was trashed and the books thrown everywhere," he told him. "I accounted for all of them, except that one."

His brother's book. It was worse than when they had stolen his gloves.

"I'll keep an eye out," Adamo said. "You get some rest before you end up in padded room. I'm sure no harm's come to it and it's just a prank." He waved him off, but when the younger man didn't move, just stood there twisting his gloves, he put his hands on his shoulders and walked him down the hall, depositing him in his room. "Next time something like this happens, come get me before you start cleaning up."

Balfour nodded again, and only when Adamo had closed the door did he break down, sinking down onto the bed and crying his heart out. He was sure that whoever stole the book not only did so, but completely destroyed it as well once they had read the inscription. He was almost positive, knowing some of the men here, that he would never see it again. He almost wished that it was Raphael who had stolen it. He knew the man took care of books. Even Ivory would have been preferable to who he really thought destroyed his room with such malice. As he trashed the broken glass of his photograph of him, Amery, and Charity, only one name echoed in his head. No one else would have been so cruel. Only Rook.

It was with these hopeless thoughts that he fell asleep, the broken frame gripped in gloveless hands, his gloves wrapped around it. There were few things that he had of his brother, and the vandalhe refused to think for sure that it was Rookhad taken one and nearly destroyed another. He was glad no one was stealing his gloves anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

He easily got a new frame for the broken picture and had taken a black pen to where the glass had cut a mark in the picture, right on Amery's hair. He was glad it blended well. He hadn't smiled at all in the week that had passed, nor had he really spoken to anyone, including Anastasia. Rook strutted around like a smug cock, a nasty grin on his face, always making little snide remarks toward his silence. Balfour would only look at him for a moment, then move on. At the end of the week, there was a book sitting on Balfour's bed, the black cover gilded with gold. It was then that a bright smile came across his face. He hurried over to it, flipping it open and reading the familiar inscription:

_My dearest brother, let this book enlighten you as to the history of Volstov as it once did me._

It was simple and to the point, but the words meant the world to him, especially now that he could only imagine his brother saying them. He held it to his chest, relieved to have it returned to him. "Thank you, sir," he whispered, knowing that it was Adamo who had gotten it back for him. No one else had known what he had lost.

He had a raid that night, so he took the book into Adamo's office while he wasn't there, and put it on the shelf, smiling at the sight of the small package on his desk.

Knowing that it would be safe in the Chief Sergeant's office, he slid down into Anastasia's pen quite easily and happily, and got ready for another raid.

It was another good raid, or, at least, no one got hurt. The only problem seemed to be the next morning, one of the men just wouldn't stop sneezing, which really upset Rook and worried Balfour

Rook was mostly upset because, in light of Magoughin's cold—of all people, Magoughin—he was now worried that _he'd_ get sick and be kept from raids. Nothing put him in a worse mood than the possibility of not flying. Any time the large man sneezed, coughed, or even sniffled while looking in Rook's general direction, the cruel man snarled something nasty at him.

Slowly, over the next couple weeks, each and every Airman came down with the same thing, some more quickly than others. Most were either too stubborn to admit they had gotten sick, or didn't realize they even were sick. Balfour, unpredictably, was one of the foolishly stubborn ones, not to mention skilled at hiding illness. Along with taking the shifts of those too sick to go on raids, he was volunteering in the medical center, trying to learn what he could on top of what he had already learned. They were grateful for the help; this virus was spreading quickly. Anastasia was the only one who noticed that something wasn't quite right.

"You have been very quiet," she stated, some metallic worry creeping into her voice. "You have been on many raids. Are you tired?"

He smiled softly at the concern, happy that he was on her back so that she wouldn't see that he wasn't telling her the whole truth.

"I'm just tired," he told her. "I have been volunteering at the medic's. Did you know I wanted to be a medic, myself, before I came here?"

"I remember that Amery once mentioned that you had such a desire. He said that he was proud. Why can Thoushalt's rider not take your place? She has not been up in a week."

"Ace has come down with a virus like a lot of the others," he informed her. In truth, there were only five of them still functioning well enough to fly: Rook, Adamo, Luvander—who was surprisingly resilient given his size—Ivory, and himself. The others were so sick that they couldn't get away from a toilet for more than a half hour, or worse. Jeannot's fever was so bad that it had put him into a coma, Ace was delirious, Raphael was so weak he couldn't move, and Ghislain refused to leave Jeannot's side for anything. "It's getting pretty bad…"

"And are you sick as well?" the dragon asked. "Do not lie to me, little brother, for I always know."

"I am slightly ill, yes," he murmured. "But I can fly, don't worry."

They didn't talk anymore after that, the world having exploded into a windy, fiery hell. On the way back, Balfour only claimed fatigue and stayed silent, not having the energy to shout over the wind.

When they landed, he slipped out into the hall to check on the other two who had gone with him, but heard nothing strange from either stall. He went back to Anastasia's and began to clean the ash off of her, getting into the little corners that were hard to get thoroughly. He could hear her speaking, vaguely, but his mind was elsewhere. He just smiled, patted her, and kept cleaning. Tired and dizzy, he rested his forehead against her cool body and closed his eyes…

"—what the hell he thought he was doing. He better be okay, or I'm going to be fucking _pissed_," was the first thing he heard as he woke, a familiar and comforting voice speaking much too loudly. He made a soft noise and rolled over a bit, only to find the edge of the bed and be stopped by large, rough hands. "Careful," the voice—he couldn't quite place it—grunted. "Roll the other way if you've got to roll." Once he was settled safely on the bed, he realized that the hands were a bit reluctant to release him, lingering a moment longer than necessary and then pulling back slowly, the warm flesh slipping slowly away…

"—and you'd be happy to know that Ghislain's recovered—though he's not left Jeannot's side—and Ace is getting better. Or…he's not talking quite as much nonsense as he was. Medic says he's not delirious any more, anyway," was the next thing he heard. The lighting and air was different, but the bed was still the same, so he knew well that he hadn't moved somewhere darker, cooler, and quieter. And yet, the owner of that voice was still there…or perhaps he'd come back. He really wanted Amery right then. He would have known how to make the odd numbness in his limbs go away. He would have told him ghost stories and chastised him for over-exerting himself.

He didn't realize that he had asked for his brother until the voice had fallen silent, and that hand, the one whose touch he felt in his dreams, rested on his shoulder.

"Balfour," the man murmured softly, still thinking the younger man was asleep most likely. "Not you, too…" There was worry there, a strange sadness that the young man suddenly recognized, the sound sending him back to his parlor as his body shut down once again.

A man was standing in the parlor as his father shoved him in. He knew whom he would be confronting; he had been told. However, Chief Sergeant Adamo was not the kind of man he had been expecting. He first thing he had not iced about him was his boots: the soles well worn, the toes scuffed, not the shiny dress shoes he had been expecting. This only compelled him to look higher, and as his eyes travelled up his pants, he realized that they, too, were worn—but far from ragged—a dark, woolen fabric. His shirt was not the silk that he had expected and did not sit stiffly on the slender body of a stuck-up city yuppie. It was a simple, dark, cotton shirt. Adamo's body was well muscled, hands callused from years of work. Even his words had surprised him.

"Again, I extend my condolences for the loss of your brother. He was a good man," Adamo had said quietly, his tone speaking words he never said, words of regret, sadness, hesitance. He wasn't haughty at all.

Breathtaken by such sincerity, Balfour couldn't snap back, or even glare as he had wanted to at first, as he had at everyone else who had offered such condolences.

"I'm sure you know why I'm here."

Balfour could only nod; yes, he knew well.

"Anastasia will have no other," he had told him. "She has refused—nearly killed, in some cases—everyone else. She wants you and you alone. You don't really have much of a choice. If you say no, we're down one swift. Puts the rest of the team in more danger. You know the part swifts play?" Balfour shook his head. "They're recon. Without, we're flying blind. It puts more men in danger."

The younger male was silent for a while, hands twisting familiar white gloves as he thought of more men—more _brothers—_going home to their families in boxes…or not at all. Then he remembered the letter, his graveside promise, and stood a bit straighter, blue eyes steely and stubborn.

"I will take his place."

Those had been the words that landed him here, in the Airman's med-wing, he thought as he woke again, alone this time. He opened his eyes and sat up a bit, looking around, only to immediately regret the movement as he leaned sharply to the left and emptied the contents of his stomach on the floor. He heard—vaguely—a young medic groan and complain, but it was cleaned up promptly, a basin placed there for any other occurrences.

He looked around again. Adamo. He wanted Adamo, even if that meant getting yelled at for being so foolish. He would know how everyone else was fairing.

"Where's the Chief Sergeant?" Balfour asked the young man cleaning the floors.

"Raid siren went off. Him, Rook, and Ivory went off to kill some Ke-Han bastards," the boy said. "Looked a right mess," he added as an afterthought, talking to himself. "Sick as a dog, and he was growling about _you_ being so stubborn. Hadn't slept, either."

Those words sent a shock of terror through Balfour's body, and he swung his legs out of bed, ignoring the protests, brushing off the grabbing hands. He could only think of Adamo, out there flying sick and tired. It was then that he knew that if something happened, if Adamo didn't come back, he'd go insane. He wasn't just attracted to him; he was in love with him.

He ran down to the docks, past Anastasia's pen, straight to Proudmouth's just as the older man was sliding off her huge back.

"You have a visitor, dear," she rumbled, making Adamo turn, surprise on his face at his most unexpected visitor. "Good to see you're feeling better. Anastasia was most concerned."

After a moment more of semi-blank staring from his commanding officer, Balfour snapped, knowing that it was the illness that had dazed him.

"You utter _fool_," he hissed, grabbing a rather compliant Adamo by the shoulders and shoving him onto a bench. "You yell at everyone else for flying sick, yet you do the very thing! You could have gotten killed!"

"Someone had to," Adamo protested weakly, meeting his eyes not with a challenge but with something close to defiance. He knew he had done wrong, but he also had done what he had had to do. "Luvander was too sick to go; we needed a three-man team. I had to."

Balfour checked him over, not caring that he was touching him too much. A scrape here, a burn there. Nothing to be worried about.

"Ghislain has recovered fully, you said. Why didn't you make _him_ go?" he asked as his hands ran along one arm, checking for fractures. Adamo's shiver didn't go unnoticed. "Cold?" He knew he was being selfish where the man was concerned, but he really didn't want to lose him.

""I wasn't going to make him leave Jeannot. And no, I'm not cold."

"Foolish, foolish man," Balfour muttered affectionately, then called for a medic. "But, you're lucky. You're not hurt too badly. You need rest, though. I'll ask Ghislain to take your place."

"Adamo looked at him blearily, then smiled softly. "When'd you become Chief Sergeant?" he asked softly, then promptly passed out.

Balfour caught him, wrapping his arms around him as they as they sat there. "Stubborn, foolish, lucky man," he murmured. "You're going to make some girl very happy one day." He didn't protest when the medics came, even though he had wanted to cling to him. He knew better. If he had been caught, he would have been tormented and Adamo would have lost respect.

He, too, was shoved into a bed in the med-wing, still being too sick to fly or care for others. He didn't fight them, knowing that it had only been adrenaline that had kept him running down there. As he passed out once more, he smiled, happy that his bed was near Adamo's. He could still feel the warmth of the man in his arms, and as he slept, this lead to very pleasant dreams.


	7. Chapter 7

**Many thanks to Arsinyk, my beta! Hope this one is better than the last six!**

Over the next weeks, the Airmen recovered quickly, each man taking up his tasks once again. Miraculously, Luvander hadn't fallen ill at all, nor had Ivory. Balfour, personally, couldn't get out of the medical wing fast enough. The week or two of sickness changed almost nothing. Ivory still played the piano just as much; Ace still cheated at darts; Rook was still a jackass; Raphael and Balfour still endured endless torment for acting like Cindies. The only thing that had changed was Balfour's realization of his feelings, feelings he could never let slip. He changed to make up for that change inside him, becoming more distant, more reserved. He stopped meeting Adamo's eyes, forced himself to not look at the man unless the situation _demanded _it. Was this the way it had been with Amery and his unnamed lover? Had he been forced to write a love letter to nobody because everyone around him would disapprove of his affections for the woman? These questions haunted Balfour now, as he sat in his room, waiting up for the sound of the men getting in from the raid.

The scratching of his pen and the ticking of the clock were deafening as he wrote away the seconds and minutes until the raucous entry of the Airmen who had flown out that night. He couldn't sleep until they made it back safely–another change from when he had been sick. Before it had only been one or two nights a week, restlessly waiting, but now...now, he couldn't sleep no matter who was scheduled to fly. He hoped he would get over this nervousness soon. All this sleepless worrying was beginning to take its toll, emotionally and physically—not to mention that if Rook ever found out, he'd call him a pussy-footed, pillow-biting Cindy and likely destroy more of his books or something similarly important to him.

In a cacophony of swearing, the team came back, and Balfour turned out his light and lay down, resigning to getting what meager sleep he could. This was how his nights usually went if he wasn't on a raid himself. On raids, he was intensely focused, more so than usual, and that was saying something. He was hyper-aware of his teammates' positioning, the positions of the Ke-Han below, everything. Adamo had said that he was becoming a better recon, but it was only because he was always worried that someone else would get hurt on his time.

Finally, and none too soon, the weekend came, and, with it, a trip into town. Balfour was just happy to be out of the Airman for a while. He wasn't planning on meeting with any of the women on the list, but he carried it with him out of habit. Predictably, he went to his favorite cafe to hide, knowing well that none of the other airmen ever went there—and he didn't ever want them to. He bought a coffee and sat down to write, poems, letters, just anything to expel what he was feeling. He would hide this book away later so no one would ever find it, but for now, he wasn't worried about getting caught. The quiet music was soothing and relaxing and he felt the tension seeping from his shoulders. He was safe here.

"Safe" was a relative word, he realized the moment a fight broke out among the patrons, two men yelling and throwing blows, fighting over a woman was trying to break them up, embarrassed by their actions. He stood then, and just left, not wanting to get pulled into-–or blamed for-–the brawl. Despite the fact that he had never once started a fight and only joined in one or two if he absolutely had to, he was an Airman, thus the first to be pointed at when damage was done. Rook had given them all a bad name, in his opinion. He wasn't fond of fighting, not even on the back of his dragon. The only difference was that when he was with Anastasia, he had to fight. Here, he had the option to leave, and leave he did.

He wandered through upper Miranda, just looking around, trying to relax. It wasn't working. Frustrated, he pulled out his list and began to ask around after some of the women. He approached a portly woman roughly in her fourties with scraggly hair and too much makeup. Smiling at her, he glanced at the list. "Excuse me, Madam? Do you know a woman by the name of Andrada?"

Unfortunately, luck didn't seem to be with him.

She turned, face contorted in fury as she bared her teeth slightly. "What is it with you men and trying to ruin every good girl's reputation?" she barked, actually pushing Balfour, who stepped away so that he was out of her range.

"Forgive me, madam, but I'm not planning on ruining anyone's reputation. I am actually looking for an old friend of my brother's. His name was Amery," he protested, voice sweet, trying to keep her calm. It wasn't working.

Her face went even redder. "That pompous son of a bitch? He had no friends. The ones he had, he was just using either for sex or to do his dirty work," she snarled. "He was a manipulative bastard, and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying!"

Balfour backed away slowly, appalled, not wanting to hear such things. He had never seen a woman act out so badly, nor had he heard such nasty things about Amery. He gave up on reasoning with her and high-tailed it out of there, retreating as quickly and politely as possible. He hadn't been planning on nearly breaking up a small group of women gossiping just outside of one of the more popular teahouses.

"Oh, sorry," he said hastily, making one of the women laugh flirtatiously and saunter forward.

"Oh my," she said, looking him up and down and causing him to go bright red. "Look what we have here. What's a fine specimen like you doing up in a place like this? See, I thought all the handsome ones stayed away from upper Miranda because The Esar would cut off…ah, certain parts of their anatomy."

Balfour shook his head, amazed by the rumors that had apparently spread—not yet realizing that he was being hit on—and informed her that no, no such law existed, which only made the woman laugh a bit more and shake her head. A brunette across from her rolled her eyes and told her to stop being so obvious, all the while sending lecherous grins Balfour's direction.

"You look like somebody I know," the first woman said, frowning a bit.

"Well, ah, I must just have one of those faces," Balfour said quietly, nervous now.

"One of those faces, eh?" the woman said, walking over, running her finger over his shoulder. It was unnerving, having someone so close, and he truly didn't like having her touching him like that—way too intimate, way too familiar. He stepped away from her, frowning deeply. No, this wasn't helping his mood.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

She giggled and simpered, batting her long eyelashes. "Oh, you have the most beautiful eyes," she said, reaching up to smooth her hair, tossing it over her shoulder.

"I see," he said quietly, nodding once and backing away. "I'm not interested, thank you."

"Not interested?" the woman asked, laughing. "Oh, well, that's quite a pity. I'm probably the best you'll ever have." She sighed and backed away, sauntering off to giggle with her gaggle of friends.

He couldn't help but heave a relieved sigh. Such experiences were rare for him and most unpleasant. It wasn't like he could actually tell these women _why_ he wasn't interested, and the woman who had been hitting on him had been quite fetching; however, he felt nothing for her. She did nothing for him, anyway. It would have been impossible for him to even pretend that she was the one he really wanted even had he been desperate enough to try. He was not soft curves and a simpering voice. He was strong, stubborn, and took no nonsense. Not to mention, Balfour sincerely doubted he would be in charge during—

He shook his head quickly, dislodging those thoughts, and kept walking, heading toward the palace, mentally chastising himself for letting himself get carried away with thoughts of Adamo…again, this time, dirty ones.

Sighing, he looked up at the dome of the palace and then shook his head, silently cursing the laws of this society with a soft, polite smile on his face. This was Balfour. He could think the worst things, even plot someone's doom—well, perhaps not quite that—and all anyone ever saw was a polite smile. Lately, that smile had been fading to nothing. He had given up on that mask, but now, that mask was returning to its rightful place. If the sickness had done any good for him, it had given him a bit of strength. He knew what he needed to be, now, and would fulfill that role—the role of a gentleman, a strong soldier, and an excellent recon pilot—without fail, without wavering toward his more Cindy tendencies, and without ever letting anyone know his more secret desires.

A few hours later, he went back to the Airman, but couldn't figure out what to do: eat something, or read. He spent some time rummaging in the cabinets before deciding on just grabbing a book, as he wasn't hungry anyway. He hadn't _really_ wanted to come back; he had only come back because it was his turn to raid, tonight. Reading, he decided, was a better way to spend his time, and much less awkward than looking for food that wasn't there—not to mention, he wouldn't end up making a grocery list that he couldn't shop for until tomorrow. He went to his room, grabbed one of his books on historical treatises, and sat down on a couch, silent, curled into himself.

Feeling eyes on him, he looked up. Raphael was standing by the arm of the couch, a book in his hand. Balfour had always been slightly fond of Raphael, a cultured man who shared his love of books.

"There is plenty of room if you wish to sit," he offered, scooting even further to his left, pressing up against the arm of the couch to give his friend even more room.

Raphael had only one flaw in Balfour's eyes: He had a flair for the dramatics…in the worst of ways.

"I had been _planning _to lie down and read," Raphael whined, earning a clank of piano keys from across the room.

Unable to discern if that was a clank of complaint or support, Balfour just kept up his inviting smile.

"Yes, I realize that," he said quietly. "You often lie down while you read, which is why I am at the end of the couch. There is plenty of room."

"What a fucking Cindy thing to notice," probably Rook snarled. Both Balfour and Raphael ignored him. Instead, Raphael huffed out a breath in answer and threw himself onto the couch.

"Alas, I must resign myself to reading in utter anguish!" he cried, his legs and arms going every which way. Another clanking chord expressed complete distaste for the theatrics that would have usually set Balfour to laughing quietly. Instead, he stood.

"You win," he muttered, walking away to sit quietly in a corner chair where _no one _would bother him all because they wanted to lie down and read. Instead, a dart landed by his ear. He plucked it and threw it in the general direction of the dart board, missing horribly.

"Fucking Cindy can't even throw right!" Rook growled, wheeling on him. "If you're going to throw it, throw it right. Hit the damn target!"

Ace just laughed and pluked the dart from Rook's hand. "Yeah, that's why he's _never_ allowed to join, remember"

Raphael was looking at him in utter shock. Perhaps he hadn't meant to make him move, but Balfour didn't care. He wanted to be left alone. Of course, even this drew unwanted attention from the worst possible source.

"You feeling alright?" came a gruff voice over his left shoulder that just made him want to grin and groan at the same time. He did neither, only turned and looked up to the concerned face.

"I'm quite alright, sir," he said politely, keeping his expression schooled as he looked just a bit past Adamo's right ear. "Just wanted to read, is all."

Adamo gave him one of those indiscernible looks, and then walked off, leaving Balfour dizzy and confused. He hated how that man could confuse him so easily, how he could make him short of breath and burning hot and love everything and hate the whole world all at once. After a moment to recollect his composure, he stood and retreated to his room, glancing at the schedule as he went. He was glad he had as he was on raid tonight. Perhaps he should get some sleep after all. He locked his door and slipped on his uniform before lying down so he could jump onto Anastasia with no delay.

A few hours later, the raid siren was ringing and he was down the porthole and on Anastasia's back and out into the air in no time. He breathed in deeply, letting the crisp autumn air wake him completely, then stroked his girl's neck.

"Hey," he murmured to her, almost sure the wind had whipped away his words before she could even hear them.

"You have not been sleeping, little brother," Anastasia observed. She was very perceptive, a trait that Balfour was always proud of, no matter how inconvenient it could be at times.

"I haven't been able to rest lately. Come, let's watch after our friends, shall we?"

"Naturally."

That night's raid was very quick and to the point. They simply had to torch one of the Ke-Han watch towers. Within a few hours, Balfour was heading back to bed. He didn't realize until the next morning that something was off within his room. He went through his things, finding everything where he had put it, including the papers under his mattress and the book in the false bottom of his drawer. Well, then, what was missing? He couldn't figure it out, no matter how he tried, so he shoved it out of his mind stubbornly. He shouldn't have been surprised that one of the Airmen had broken into his room…so what was bothering him about last night?

Whoever had broken in had also bothered to lock his door back, he realized. Or, perhaps, no one had broken in at all, and he was just being paranoid. Grumbling to himself, he put pepper on his eggs, then flipped them, letting that side finish cooking. This place was just making him paranoid. That was probably it. Paranoia sounded better than someone actually locking the door back after breaking in. It made more sense. With that pleasant thought, he sat down and only ate about half of his eggs, then ended up just staring at them. He had thought that those had been clever hiding places for his journal and those papers, but now he was considering rethinking them. Not many places to hide them with cement floors and no closets, but he had to find new places. He had a nasty feeling that someone might have found them. Yes, he was becoming _very_ paranoid. He would know if someone saw them, though. They would, doubtless, be acting very differently toward him.

_What kind of idiot Cindy falls in love with his Chief Sergeant, anyway_, a little voice in his mind that sounded disturbingly like Rook's asked. _Clearly, this idiot Cindy_, Balfour answered silently, then sighed, putting his face in his hands, as he realized that he was talking to voices in his head.

"You win, Anastasia," he muttered, clearing off his plate and going back to bed. He was exhausted, had to be, or he wouldn't be feeling this way.


End file.
